


2023

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Future Fic, Mild Blood, Rough Sex, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 13:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Claire's been hunting for a long time now. That doesn't make anyone immune to mistakes.





	2023

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'Sam/Claire' square.

When Claire wakes up the first time she's so screwed-up and bleary that she thinks she must have been roofied. She's half-numb, the world swimming at the edges, and the most she can do is lean over and puke, stomach stuck in that panicked lurching for almost a minute before she flops onto her back again, head ringing.

When she wakes up the second time she doesn't yak, at least, but she doesn't exactly feel better. Her skin's too hot. Her mouth tastes like—fuck, all kinds of nasty. She tries to stretch and then, ow, it turns out that _everything_ hurts, and then a guy says, "Oh."

Claire freezes, for that second-long response she just can't seem to shake no matter how many monsters she takes out, and lunges for a blade that's not there. "Hey, hey," the guy says, and a big hot hand catches her wrist and she twists against the grip but can't even budge it, and then the guy says, " _Claire_ ," and a light comes on, and it's—Sam, leaning over her, frowning. He blinks and then lets go, backs off, so she's just left to stare up at the dark wooden ceiling.

"What," Claire says, breathless, and then—oh, what the fuck. She's _naked_ , or near as, with her flannel overshirt tugged over her shoulders but her cami and bra and jeans and panties and boots long gone, somewhere. She's still wearing her socks. Big whoop.

When she turns her head, Sam's sitting over against the wall a yard or so away with one arm wrapped around his knees. A battery lantern by his feet is putting out a moderate amount of blue-white light, enough to light up the little room they're in. Sam's got his face politely turned away but she tugs her flannel more firmly over herself, anyway, and. Just.

" _What_ ," she says, again. She _hurts_ , all over, and she flails one hand behind herself to sit up and—and oh, _ow_ , she hurts even there. She takes a cautious deep breath, her throat sore, and slips one hand down under her inadequate makeshift blanket to feel cautiously between her legs, and she's wet—like, _really_ wet, her clit and lips throbby and so hot she almost flinches to touch them, her thighs clenching involuntarily. When she pulls her fingers out they're smeared red. Not just a little. Her period was over like ten days ago and when she shifts the sting zings all the way up through her cunt to the pit of her throat and she almost gags again. Okay. So. That happened.

Sam hasn't said anything. Claire licks her lips (ow) and looks around. Dusty little room, dark but for the lantern. There's no furniture, nothing but an empty broken-shelved bookcase, a door over in the corner. She was sleeping (or passed out, same difference) flat on the floorboards, although when she twists around to check (ow) her head was pillowed on something. A jacket: big, folded up. The earlier puke is nowhere to be found and it doesn't even smell. Not like that, anyway. She sneaks a glance at Sam and he's still just—sitting there, leaned against the wall. His hair's long, long enough to be pulled back into a short ponytail, but even with it out of the way she can't tell what his expression is, not from the side like this. All she can see is the grey at his temples, the shine of sweat. He's still got clothes. A button-down and dark slacks, his boots kicked off by the pile of what must be her stuff next to the closed door.

Her skin feels like she's standing in front of an oven, or below a Nevada noontime sun. She runs her tongue over the inside of her lower lip and she can pick out individual toothmarks through the soreness. Her teeth, she wonders, or his. "Is there water?" she says, finally.

Sam glances at her, surprised, then turns his eyes back to the wall. "No." He clears his throat. "In, uh—in my jacket—"

His voice is as hoarse as hers. She grabs his jacket, drags it over and fumbles through it one-handed. In the inside pocket, cold metal, and she pulls out a heavy silver flask that sloshes. Thank god. A swallow goes down easy: watered whiskey. He probably mixes it with holy water. Not a bad idea. She takes another mouthful, swishes it around, tries to ignore the tears that come to her eyes at the sting, and then caps it and slides it across the floorboards. It hits him in the hip. "You sound like you could use a drink, too," she says.

"God," Sam says. He leans his forehead against the wall, doesn't pick up the flask. "Claire—"

"Don't, okay?" She licks her lips again and doesn't bother to hide the flinch. Sam's not looking at her, anyway. She gathers up her energy and levers herself up off the floor, and oh _fuck_ that hurts, her thighs shaking, her tendons screaming at unfolding so suddenly, and she finds herself stuck in a half-lurch, curled over. It's an effort to straighten up, but she does, and she swings her flannel on over her shoulders, fumbling her numb hands into the sleeves.

When she goes to do the buttons her fingers don't quite work, and the fabric scrapes agonizingly over her chest. In the lantern light she can see the bruises, the bite marks, the ring of teeth around her nipple. She shudders shoulders to hips, her pussy clenching on nothing but ache, and elects to just hold the flannel closed in one fist. She takes a deep breath. "Take a drink, Sam," she says, making her voice stronger. "You look like you need it."

There's a pause, but he finally does pick up the flask. She takes a step and her hips don't want to work, and so she just stands there in her socks and closes her eyes. This hunt wasn't supposed to be a big deal. Certainly not big enough to merit the Winchesters showing up, but there they were, looming and kinda patronizing and nice in their way. She's been hunting seven years and they still don’t really trust her to know what she's doing. She shifts her weight, winces again, and abruptly has to determine the merits of trying to sit down or just standing here frozen for approximately forever. "I guess the witch was craftier than we thought, huh?" she says.

"Not a witch," Sam says. He uncaps the flask and takes a sip, and glances over. She's sorta modest, at least, and he finally turns, putting his back to the wall. "Well, not just a witch. Cult leader."

She groans. "Oh, goddamn it." She _hates_ it when Alex is right. That ache's still lurking in the back of her head and she rubs the heel of her hand over her forehead, trying to think back. They'd been arguing over it and Sam and Dean rock-paper-scissored like they were fourteen or something, and Dean lost, and he limped off with Alex to do—something, and she and Sam came…

"Benjamin wasn't here, when we got here," Sam says. He's got his hands clenched over his knees, looking at the floor between his feet. "Must have seen us coming."

That haze of smoke. She sucks in a breath between her teeth, arms folding over her belly. She remembers now. The smoke and how Sam had said _wait—wait, Claire—_ but she'd already stepped forward, already halfway into the house, and for a second she thought it must have been on fire. That heat, licking at her skin. What a thing to walk into. The fire would've been simpler.

She doesn't remember Sam fucking her. Maybe for the best, considering how stupidly much she hurts. She takes another step toward the door and her thighs slip-slide against each other, smooth with all that wet, and she throbs again, deep. Really long time since she picked up a guy, and she hasn't even bothered with silicon lately since so many chicks are happy enough with fingers and tongue. She forgot how it felt, kinda. She girds herself, takes another step, and Sam says, "Wait, we can't leave," and before she can even really frown at him he's up, sidling around her and putting his back against the door.

"You're gonna stop me?" she says, raising her eyebrows. She gestures down at herself. There's no mirror in here but she's pretty sure she's showing off everything that happened. "Really?"

Sam's mouth is a grim slash across his face. That scar that won't heal away pulls at the edge of his eye, makes him look alternately sad or angry. Right now he just seems—tired. There's enough light to see that she didn't leave any visible marks on _him_ , and she's holding onto her chill by the very tips of her fingers, now. Weird shit happens—she's known that since she was twelve and an angel filled her up to the brim—and she's seen her share of awful on hunts, has had awful done to her, has perpetrated awful herself. There's a limit, though, to what someone should have to take, and she squares her shoulders. "I'm leaving," she says, flatly. "I need a four-hour shower and a fifth of vodka and as many painkillers as Alex'll let me take."

He winces, at that last part. Good. He doesn't move, though, and she thinks, is she seriously going to have to punch Sam Winchester. He's like twice her size and she feels like she's been run over by a truck. She could get him in the nuts, maybe, and she drops her eyes to consider it and—oh, _what_ the fuck. "It's not done," Sam says, strain in his voice, and yeah. She can see that.

His dick is—wow. Pants zipped up neat and proper, though his belt's missing, and his boner's popping out the front of his pants, trapped in a sideways curve under the waistband. Big. _Really_ big. No wonder she can't walk. She clenches again around nothing and the sting is amazing but it doesn't stop the pulse of heat in the pit below her belly, and she wavers, her hips tilting forward no matter how much they ache.

Sam holds out a hand like he's going to steady her but snatches it back, presses both palms flat against the door. "You can feel it, right?" he says, voice coming out like it's being dragged over sharp rocks. "The magic's rebounding between us. We can contain it until it burns out. If we go out, if other people get near us before it's done, it'll spread like an infection."

"You've gotta be kidding me," she says, but—it's even hotter in here, somehow. Her skin's just erupting with dry heat and Sam's sweating, damp at his temples, his shirt soaked with big dark patches under his arms. She can smell him, even a few feet away. Salt and the bitter of sweat, and—and fucking, the weird alchemical thing that's hanging in the air. She licks her lips, sets her teeth in before the bright hurt of it reminds her, and she shakes her head. "My Jeep's outside. We can just go straight back to the motel, no one will see us."

Sam swallows. "There's a lot of town between here and there," he says, and it's like—he's trying to be gentle. He closes his eyes, leans his head against the door, and the line of sweat on his throat gleams distractingly in the lantern-light. "I texted Dean. Told him and Alex to stay away. I didn't want them checking up on us, getting caught in it, in case—"

Claire blinks. Imagines Alex stretched out on the dirty rug in the front of the house, Dean on top of her, twisting and clenching and still hot, even almost forty-five, even with the mostly-metal right leg. Or—or if Dean saw _her_ , and he locked onto her with those eyes that could get so dangerous, with his mouth—

She takes a step back, has to turn around flinchingly to just not look at Sam right now. She has never in her _life_ thought about Dean Winchester that way. "So, you didn't want to bang anyone else?" she says, trying to make her voice light. "I guess I'm flattered. Creepo."

There's no response, for too long. She sits down, carefully, her thighs screaming protest as she goes down to one knee and then the other, and then slumps awkwardly onto her hip. Her shirt's just long enough that the tails of it cover her lap and she's glad she never left plaid behind, even when it stopped being cool and Alex would make fun. When she looks up again Sam's still got his eyes closed, and she frowns. Finally he says, quietly, "It's not like I'd have a choice."

His dick's still heavy in his pants, obvious, and she darts her eyes away from it, feeling—she doesn't even know. That pit in her stomach boils hot and her vision blurs, and she has to take a deep breath. "Sorry," she says.

"It's not your fault," he says, gentle again. He's a nice liar. She walked right into the house, swung open the door like she owned the place, because she wanted to prove—what. That she could kill a witch? "Hey," Sam says, and she looks up to find him watching her, at last. "I'm sorry, too."

"Oh, man, don't say that," she says, and her voice wobbles in a totally mortifying way. She sniffs, and busies herself with gathering her hair up, looping it around and around into a makeshift bun to at least get the hot weight off her neck. "Seriously. Don't."

With her not holding it, her shirt splits open over her chest, the flannel dragging over the too-tender skin. She hisses, shoulders curling protectively in. Sam's a biter. Another thing she never needed to know. She tucks the end of her hair in and puts her hands over her face, taking a deep breath.

"It's going to happen again," Sam says.

So polite. _It_. She drags her hands down and he's standing there, hands locked together in front of his hips. "You mean we're going to have to fuck again," she says, deliberately rude, but even if his face sort of flinches he doesn't turn away. He's blocking the view of his dick. Maybe he's trying not to scare her. "Does it have to be—actual fucking?" She gestures. "Can I just—"

She's an adult and she's done most things an adult can do to another. With Sam looking at her like that, she can't get out _suck your dick_ , especially when it should be gross, because it's _Sam_ , but it's just—not.

"I don't think we're going to have much choice, once it gets started," Sam says, and there's that thin bitter crack in his voice. He takes a deep breath. "You're hurt."

Claire shrugs. "I've had worse," she says. True and not-true.

Sam doesn't look like he believes her but he does her the credit of not saying so. "There's a—there's a haze," he says. He reaches up and pulls at his collar, and she's caught again on the wet gleam of his throat. Makes her mouth water. "I can keep control, for a while. I've been holding back. You start to—"

He shakes his head and she's not even sure she wants to know what goes there. She wraps an arm over her ribs, under the tender marked-up skin of her boobs.

"I can hold back," he says, again. "Until—until you're in it. If you want."

She narrows her eyes at him. She really, really wishes he weren't still standing up. Having to look up the mile of his body isn't making her feel any better. "What would the other option be?" she says, and knows it sounds caustic, and doesn't really do much to stop that. Alex is always telling her that it's easier to catch flies with honey. Who gives a shit about flies, is what Claire always says.

Sam sucks in his cheek on one side, creates a deep shadow under the bone. "I could try to make it… easier," he says, voice deep. He's looking at her and she can't quite tell the expression in his eyes, not with the crappy lantern and the odd angle, but he gestures at her briefly, a wave that encompasses her embarrassing pained slump. "It was too sudden, before. There was no chance to slow down, with you—I could just make it easier, that's all."

Her skin tingles, supersensitive all over. She feels like she should be glowing with the heat but when she looks down at her knees she's just plain her. "Easier," she says. "For who?"

She hears the breath Sam sucks in. "I just don't want to hurt you any more than I have to," he says, and when she looks up he just looks—miserable. "Please, Claire."

She swallows. Even just talking about it is making her clench, down deep. Better to have all this lost in some weird unremembered haze, something that happened _to_ her, or to have it right in front of her and choose to be part of it? She takes a deep breath. She's never been one to run away.

"Okay," she says. She tries to smile, the bites inside her lip pulling painfully. "I guess it's no fair if you're the only one who remembers all the awkward, right?"

Sam huffs. "Right." He stands with his shoulders flat against the door for another few seconds, just looking at her, and then licks his lips. "Do you want me to turn the light off again?"

She shakes her head. "You saw me, I see you," she says. Fair's fair. He nods. "Can we—move somewhere with a bed?"

"There's not one. There's not even furniture, really, besides the ritual table." Sam shrugs. "I guess he wasn't planning to live here. I brought us in here to keep it contained—smallest room, no windows."

"What kind of crappy cult was this guy running?" Claire says, and Sam smiles a little, but she shakes her head at him. "Come on," she says. "Can we just—"

God, it's awkward. Sam nods and, after just a second's hesitation, starts unbuttoning his shirt. Claire looks away, just out of habit. Grabs his jacket again and folds it, makes another pillow. Like that'll help anything. She's being dumb, and she knows it, and she breathes in and forces her eyes back to him. He's already dropping his shirt to the floor. He's still strong, lean and almost skinny, the hair on his chest half-grey. There's a tattoo on his chest, which somehow doesn't surprise her. He undoes the button on his pants and unzips, his eyes closing, and then he shoves them down off his hips, with his underwear, and he's just—naked, all of a sudden. Naked and tall and just very, very big. Claire feels almost grotesquely vulnerable on the floor. All that's going to be—on her, _in_ her, and okay, maybe this wasn't the best idea—

"Breathe," he says, and takes two steps forward and goes down to one knee, right in front of her. "This is all just making it easier, right?"

She blinks and nods, and he smiles, and reaches out a huge hand and curls it around her ankle. His eyelids flicker when he touches her skin and his grip goes tight, but then he visibly relaxes. "It's not bad yet," he says, softly. He strokes his thumb over the tiny hollow below her ankle bone, his eyes steady now on hers. "Let me, come on."

Claire shudders, but she makes herself unclench. He tugs and she lets him move her, lets him lay her down with her head pillowed on the bare comfort of his suit jacket. She straightens out her legs with a wince and Sam's eyes tighten, but he just spreads his huge hand out on the low curve of her belly, propped up above her on a stiff arm. "It'll be okay," he says. He doesn't smile and she's glad, because she might have hit him. He slides his hand lower, fingers brushing her pubes, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut, then, because—just no, what the fuck. She's still throbbing and furiously hot down there. Maybe he can feel it. He traces a finger over the mostly-closed seam of her lips and hits her thighs, squeezing pointlessly together, and she parts them with a wince. The tendons and muscles scream, but not as loudly—and then Sam's fingers brush over where she's wettest and where it hurts most and she lets her mouth fall open, a whining long breath sighing out of her.

"God," Sam mutters. A soft rolling thumb lands on her pubic bone, dragging slow circles, and it feels like everything inside her turns slowly to hot liquid, a deep throb making her clench around nothing. The warm presence of Sam's body shifts and she hears a joint crack like a distant gunshot, and she grins for a second, can't help it. "Hey," he says, mildly. "Don't mock the elderly."

"Oh my god," she says back, slinging an arm over her face, "don’t _remind_ me, you jerk." The relief of joking washes over her like cool air but he's parting her legs more, she can feel him arranging himself between them, and it makes another shudder work its way through her thighs, her heels dragging up involuntarily.

He doesn't respond—just as well. Instead there's a soft kiss against the inside of her knee, and another further down her thigh, and then one soft right over the mound, his breath hot even against the internal boil of her skin. A big shoulder knocks into her drawn-up thigh and he pulls her leg over it, one hand sliding under her ass and holding her steady, and then his—oh, _fuck_ , his mouth is on her, a soft sucking kiss at the mound and his tongue touching her so gently she could scream. She stuffs her knuckles into her mouth instead, biting down hard, but she can't stop her hips from lurching up toward his face. "That's right," he murmurs, somewhere down in the flaming dark, and kisses her again, his tongue starting out flat and strong, just pressure where she feels like she's about to rip open. Her clit is so sensitive that even his breath is making her shake and she reaches a hand down, grabs onto his shoulder just to hold onto something. He holds her open with two fingers, ducks down, licks broad and wet over her clit and it's so sensitive she whines around her knuckles, her thighs trying to close around his shoulders. She doesn't like this much, not normally, has to coach girls and guys alike to go carefully there, but like this she feels like Sam could fucking _bite_ her and she'd go off like a bottle rocket. Her nails are digging into his shoulder and she can't let go, just claws harder when he seals around the little nub and suckles, soft but relentless, and inside her the endlessly cresting wave doesn't break but just surges higher even as she spasms, her hips jumping, her breath coming so fast it's like she just sprinted away from a goddamn werewolf.

"Good," Sam mumbles, his lips brushing her, and doesn't pause, just ducks further down and licks her in another broad stripe from taint to clit, and again, sloppy-wet with his tongue dragging soothingly all over. It still stings something awful, but it feels so good she moans, takes her hand away from her mouth to hold his head there, clutching his soft sweaty hair and lifting her hips into it. He helps, pressing her ass up one handed as he keeps licking, slow and patient, and another shudder almost like coming rolls through the pit of her stomach but there's no _release_. She grits her teeth, another zing rocketing through her belly when he slides the tip of his tongue in, his nose brushing her clit, and fuck, _fuck_.

"Jesus," she gets out through clenched teeth, and then almost yelps when a long thick finger slides carefully inside, too. That _hurts_ and it feels so good she could just die, and she pulls at him, her hand tangled in his hair, says, "Oh, god—stop, god, it's too much."

"I know," he says, softly, but he _keeps going_ , seals his lips around her clit again and slides his finger in so deep his knuckles are denting her pussy and that arching pulse grabs her by the center again, so strong and awful and not enough, not nearly enough.

"Fuck you, Sam," she says, vicious, as the tears streak down into her hair. "It's not—it's not _doing_ anything—"

"It is," he says, more firmly, and finally she picks her head up, looks down at him. He's looking right at her from between her legs, his lips and chin shining and—oh, god, blood smeared on his cheek. She's still bleeding and he's just— "You're so wet I can just slide right in. Feel?"

He slides his finger all the way out, all the way back in, and even through the sting she can tell it's like gliding through warm water. Jesus, she's never been so wet. Sam pulls it out again and pushes her thighs up, higher and wider with his hands so huge and gently insistent, and that—oh, that doesn't hurt, not nearly so much, and she catches her legs behind her knees, holds them up like that. He kisses the back of one thigh and then she watches while he slides two fingers into his own mouth and pulls them out gleaming, and she tries to brace but there's nothing, nothing that could stop her from the noise she makes when he slips them around in the wet of her pussy and then pushes in. He sinks them all the way deep just like before, curling them hard into her g-spot, and she shudders through another grim helpless gutpunch of pleasure.

"This is so weird," she says, gasping.

Sam doesn't respond; he rocks in and out again, and again, and she can _feel_ the wet spilling around his knuckles, pushing out of her every time he moves. She breathes through it, her skin now so hot it's actively hurting. "Claire," Sam says, "I think—it's going to be soon."

She picks her head up again and he's got his eyes screwed shut, looks almost like he's in pain. Her stomach ripples and her pussy clenches hard around his fingers, wanting more, wanting everything he's got to give. "C'mere," she says, and he opens his eyes and lurches forward, catching himself with one hand just above her head, his hips falling between hers and his dick—fuck, _all_ that dick—curving in hard against her belly. She lets go of her knees and her legs curl immediately around his hips. Oh. No wonder that position was so comfortable. He's so close, his eyes searching her face, and lower. His breath on her cheek. He slides his free hand down, pushing her shirt open to splay out around her chest, and traces careful fingers over the bruises on her tits, teasing glances against her drawn-tight nipples. She bites her lip—ow, oh, teeth settling into the marks they'd already made—and takes a deliberately deep breath, her chest rising up into his touch. There's no color left in his eyes, just a solid darkness, and it's hard to think. She slides a hand down between them, wraps around the hot heft of his dick. Her hand closes around it but it's a near thing. "God," she says, gasps, "how the fuck is this going inside me?"

Sam groans, his hips grinding forward. He's wet, too, the fat head glancing smeary against her belly. "It fits," he says, deep, and then goes down to his elbow, his face settling alongside hers. The stubble scrapes harsh over her cheek and it feels so good-and-not-good that she leans into it, rubbing her face against his like a cat. He uses his other hand to grab her ass again, tilt her hips up, and like that the fat hard length of him drags right over her clit. Her hips jerk but there's nowhere to go; he digs his fingers into the plush of her ass and pushes down and oh, oh god, she writhes, caught all around him, her socked heels digging into his ass and her arms going around his neck, working herself against him, wet smearing all around. She doesn't give a fuck if she bleeds, if she breaks open—she just needs to finally, finally _come_.

His hips are working, now, shoving forward like a parody of fucking, his dick practically sawing between her forced-open lips, a constant desperate pressure setting her clit to pounding. "You're going to be okay," he says, hot, right up against her ear. His hand leaves her ass and slides up her side, finding her tit and squeezing, not careful anymore. She whines and lifts into it, turns her face into his. "You're being so good for me, honey, just hold on, just a little longer."

Her ears are ringing. When she opens her eyes everything's blurry but Sam's bright, somehow, his skin and his scars all visible to her in minute detail. She digs her fingers in at the base of his low ponytail and drags his head up, and he does it, he lifts up again and looks into her eyes, and she can see that he's hers, that she has him. Her skin might burn off. She can't talk but she doesn't have to—he touches his forehead to hers, his nose brushing alongside hers, and with her thighs locked high over his sides and her hands in his sweaty hair, he shifts his hips with a long drag of miserable pleasure straight down to her center, and then he pushes, _in_ —

*

He offered to carry her out of the house. She offered to shoot him. She really can't walk, though, her tendons and hips so battered that the best she can manage is a geriatric shuffle. "Now who's old," she says, trying to make light of it, and Sam smiles in a way that doesn't at all reach his eyes.

He helps her hobble down the two steps off the porch and she leans hard on his arm, down the gravel pathway to where her Jeep's still parked, thank god. Apparently crazy sex cultist draws the line at grand theft auto. Whoop-de-doo.

Sam helps her into the passenger seat, and he really does lift her then, picks her up by the hips like it's nothing. She'd kick him, but she's too sore. She fumbles her seatbelt on and then leans back into the seat, letting her eyes fall closed. It's a nice, cool morning. That's something, at least.

They're only two miles out of town. They don't talk, on the drive. After a while she turns her head and looks at Sam. Still no marks on him—other than the rank smell of their bodies and how wrinkled his shirt is, he could've just walked into town as Agent Fleetwood or whatever old-ass name they picked, no big deal. She hasn't gotten to look in a mirror but she's pretty sure she didn't fare so hot.

Her cami was sacrificed to the clean-up gods and she's just in her buttoned-closed plaid, jeans. Her bra's stuffed into her back pocket—no _way_ she was going to try that, not with the layers of teeth marks and bruising and the scrapes on her back.

Dean and Alex are waiting for them in the alley behind the drugstore, right where Sam had told them to be when he called. Dean's pacing and he gives the Jeep a hot glare as soon as they turn down the alley; Alex is sitting on the Impala's hood, her hands shoved into her jacket pockets, but Claire's sure she's going to get a bitch-out scolding once they're away from the guys.

Sam cuts the engine and hops out—she's barely even managed to get her seatbelt off before he's opening her door, offering her both hands. "Let me," he says, quietly, and she nods. He slides her down to the ground, her body bumping gently against his so-much-bigger one, and she can feel the blush starting, her cheeks heating embarrassingly fast. "There you go, honey," he murmurs, and then backs off again, gives her space.

"Sammy," Dean says, and Sam goes over and gets dragged into a rough hug, Dean practically patting him down to make sure he's not hurt.

"I'm fine," Sam says, quiet, and glances back at Claire. Dean looks at her, too, his eyes narrow, and Claire stares down at the asphalt below her boots.

"Hey," she hears.

She sighs. "Can we save the lecture for after I get some Vicodin or something?" Claire says, leaning her head back against the Jeep.

Alex doesn't look mad, though. "Extra-strength Tylenol, maybe," she says. She searches Claire's face and then reaches out to delicately touch the scrape on her cheek, where the bruise is already achingly full. Claire turns her face away, just a little, and her eyes find the Winchesters, talking with their heads close together by the Impala. Sam looks tired. In the sunlight it's easier to see the grey threaded through his hair. Hard to believe it's the same guy who turned her onto her belly and ground her down into the floor, his hand hard on the back of her head and hurting even as she urged him on, practically dared him.

"We're leaving," Alex says, and Claire's eyes jump back to her. She opens her mouth and Alex gives her that _look_. "Don't even. They can finish the job. You couldn't take out a baby shapeshifter right now, Barbie."

"Don't have to walk to hold a gun," she says back, but it's just for appearances. All she wants is to sleep. Eighteen hours before the magic fizzled and died and she's about wrung dry.

"Hey," says Dean. She turns her head and watches his eyes hop from her cheek to her bitten-up throat to her reddened wrists where she didn't bother to roll down her sleeves. He doesn't say anything, just meets her eyes square again with his jaw tight, the crow's feet cut in deep, and she appreciates it. "We're taking care of this. We'll kill him."

"Kill him extra hard for me, please," she says.

He looks at her for a second and then glances at Alex. "Hey, Sam wanted to ask you something," he says, and it's such a dumb obvious play that Claire rolls her eyes. Alex just nods and goes, though, heading over to where Sam's leaning against the Impala, and when she's out of earshot Dean looks right at her again, hard, and says, "This wasn't Sam's fault."

She blinks at him. Breathes.

"Whatever—whatever happened," Dean says, and it's obviously an effort. "Sometimes we're forced to do things we would never do. That doesn't make it our fault, no matter that it's our bodies doing it."

Claire remembers overhearing some pretty angsty confessions, from both of them, back at the house in Sioux Falls. "Is that just for Sam?" she says. "Or does anyone else get that get out of jail, too?"

Dean lifts his chin and looks down at her. He's carrying his age differently than Sam—it's all in the lines carved deep in his face, his hair mostly hiding its grey. "It's not a get out of jail," he says, after a few seconds. "It's just the way it is. Don't let it get tangled up, in your head. It was a thing that happened, and now it's over, and that means it's done."

When she woke up crying, the last time, Sam was holding her, his arm so light over her waist, his face pressed into her hair. _Let me just get you through this,_ he'd whispered, _and you don't ever have to see me again. I promise. Okay, Claire?_

She nods, and Dean watches her face for a second before he steps closer, his hands out. She leans forward and then he's hugging her, carefully, and for some reason that's what finally makes tears spring to her eyes again. "Sorry," she mumbles into his jacket.

He rests his chin on top of her head. "It's done," he says, softly, and pulls back. He squeezes her shoulders and looks down into her eyes for just a moment, and then nods and turns away, walking back toward the Impala. His limp's not as bad as it was when she saw them last.

Claire watches Alex get her hug from Dean and a quick kiss on top of her head, and then she has to reach up and pull Sam down into a hug that he barely reciprocates, and then she's walking back across the alley, dangling Claire's keys from her finger. "Check out who's driving," Alex says, with the corner of her mouth turned up.

"Fine," Claire says, sighing for show, and then she has to let Alex help her back into the passenger seat, her legs just refusing to make the step up without help. "But we're going to a drive-through, and I want tacos. Lots of tacos."

"Sounds good to me," Alex says, and closes the door on her, walks around the front to the driver's side.

Claire looks out the windshield. Sam's saying something to Dean, frowning, and he meets her eyes across the alley for just a second before he drops them again. Dean puts his hand on Sam's elbow. She wonders if he's saying the same thing that he said to her.

The door creaks open and Alex hops in, putting her seatbelt on. She says, "Belt," and Claire sighs again and puts her own on, and then Alex finds her hand and squeezes it tight. Claire's eyes sting again, but she squeezes right back. It's a few seconds before Alex lets go. She sniffs, and then finally puts the keys in the ignition and turns the engine over. She taps on the radio, right away—a classic station, playing a song by that Black Eye Pea band. "Tacos?" she says, looking over at Claire.

Claire nods. "Tacos," she says. Alex backs up out of the alley, complaining about the lack of a rear camera like she always does, and before they totally lose sight of the Winchesters, watching them go, Claire waves. She closes her eyes, leans her head back against her seat. She hopes they waved back.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/174901728319/2023)


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